


The Great Criminal Case of Herbert M. Lester and Some Lady Whose Car Got Egged

by ofelia_song



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crack, Gen, Lmao what is this, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofelia_song/pseuds/ofelia_song
Summary: In which a frat boy does not deal with the consequences of his own actions.





	The Great Criminal Case of Herbert M. Lester and Some Lady Whose Car Got Egged

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for an english assignment at 3am

“All rise for the honourable Justice Byess.” 

An elongated, doughy shape looms down the worn vinyl carpet. The Justice steps forward.

SLAM, goes the door. SLAM, goes the room. Tonk tonk tonk, go the feet.

A squashed frog compresses into view (the Justice dislikes this comparison and recently ordered an injunction against it. The proposed amendment: rather unsquare, but in fact rectangular—wide across and short on the sides. The Justice more recently retracted the injunction).

Atop his seat, the Frog shuffles his papers.

A mouth-breather makes his presence known.

A sneeze.

A tapped foot.

Shfff shfff, go the papers.

“Hem-hem.”

Smack, goes the gavel. 

“The court is now in session.” 

Smack. Well-trained eyes follow.

The Frog smiles.

“Today, we are here to decide the case of one Mr. Herbert M. Lester. You are Mr. Lester, are you not?”

Herbert stands. A young man, perhaps twenty. His outfit is sharp, his hair neat. His face really ought to be affable, but through no fault of its own invokes a high degree of  
punchability.

“Yes, Your Honour. Herbert Moe Lester. Just Herb, to my friends.”

The Frog laughs. What a fine young man.

Herbert smiles. The girls at college all think he’s quite handsome. 

“And the plaintiff. Miss Emma Kent, yes?”

Emma nods. A hunched, mousy girl. She smooths over her skirt, purses her lips. Her blouse is just the right mix between professional and unprofessional (and her hair, and  
her makeup, and her shoes, and her earrings, and her skin, and her eyeballs, and her esophagus, and her pancreas).

“Excellent. The defence may now present its opening statement.”

This time, Herbert does not stand. It is his lawyer.

Herbert’s lawyer is a thin, balding man called Mr. Sellout, of the firm Moneygrubbers and Co.

He sports an extremely robust moustache, the kind that beats up God in an alley and takes His lunch money. His tweed suit, though smart, seems lacklustre in comparison. 

“Your Honour, my client is a fine young man.”

The Frog nods in agreement. He leans forward on his arms.

“Mr. Lester has been an exemplary member of the community.”

A fleshy elbow lands on Herbert’s drunk driving citation from last month.

“He sincerely regrets his actions.”

A spitball arcs and nestles in Emma’s hair.

“He shows great promise as both an athlete and a scholar.”

Herbert mimes a noose at the Jury. He is missing practice to be here, not that is matters since he’s been suspended from the Division III baseball team for a month because of  
his GPA.

“It would be a shame if a silly mistake made by a boy were to derail his future.”

Emma is actually missing something to be here (a Business Ethics seminar, to be exact). She dares not make spitballs or rude gestures. She sighs and schedules another PTSS  
(Post-Egg Traumatic Stress Syndrome) therapy session. 

“That is all, Your Honour.”

Smack, goes the gavel. The Frog has tears in his eyes.

“A moving speech, Mr. Sellout. Quite moving.”

Mr. Sellout bows. He was a rising star on Broadway before he found his true calling protecting frat boys from the consequences of their own actions.

“The prosecution’s opening statement may now be read.”

Emma’s lawyer now takes the stage. His name is Mr. Doormat.

Like Mr. Sellout, Mr. Doormat is a thin, balding man. Unlike, Mr. Sellout, Mr. Doormat was not on Broadway. He has the sort of moustache that inspires pity and a terribly sweaty forehead. There is an equally sweaty handkerchief in the pocket of his tweed jacket. His suit is the sort that reminds people why it was left in the seventies.  
Mr. Doormat takes a great, heaving breath. If you have ever seen an axolotl give birth, that would not be remotely helpful in imagining Mr. Doormat, though you may want to invest in Dr. Sneevil’s Eyeball Toothpaste (available at your local pharmacy, starting at ninety-hundred cents).

“My client, Miss Emma, was quite terrorized by the highly dramatic experience of having her cart egged by that young man, Pervert—”

Herbert appeals to the jury. Who, me? 

Mr. Sellout shakes his head. He practices this particular head shake for fifteen minutes and fivety-three seconds every day. The exact degree of frownery took him years to perfect. 

“—and should like to receive condensation for the conceivable damages occurred.”

Mr. Sellout grins. It is the type of grin a grinner grins when he doesn’t want his grin to show why he grins.

Herbert attempts a smarmy smirk. He winks at Emma.

Emma squints and wonders if conjunctivitis is a side effect of constipation.

“Hem-hem.”

A fine mist of spittle rises from the Frog’s mouth.

“The defence may now present evidence.”

Mr. Sellout smiles. It is a predator’s smile. Emma shivers. 

“Indeed. I will now present: Exhibit A!”

Slam, goes the evidence.

The Frog picks up the sheaf of papers. He frowns.

“Quite interesting, Mr. Sellout, but I fail to see how a Dunkin’ Donuts takeout menu—”

Mr. Sellout goes as red as a stop sign, or something. He grabs the menu.

Slam, goes the real evidence. 

The Frog raises a pair of “spectacles”. (The Justice visited an optometrist last month and was declared to have “extremely 20/20 vision, the most 20/20 out of all the other  
20/20 visions”. The Justice also issued an injunction against the word “glasses” recently. The Justice did not issue an injunction against quotation marks.) 

“Quite interesting, Mr. Sellout. Please show the evidence to the jury.”

The Jury lean forward in anticipation.

Mr. Sellout brandishes the evidence quite spectacularly, like the plastic rapier he once used in a production of “Hamlet” (still on Broadway every Tuesday might, tickets  
starting at three hundred dollars and eleventy cents). 

The evidence is a set of photographs, each of a Kia Sportsreliableorwhatever.

The Kia is blue.

Oooh, goes the Jury. How scandalous.

“Yes,” says Mr. Sellout, as if by the graveside of a soda bottle. “Quite indeed. Blue.”

The Jury nod in assent. Blue. How scandalous.

“Also, not only is the Kia Sportsreliableorwhatever blue.” 

He pauses. The moustache quivers for effect.

“This blue is a particular shade of blue called.”

The moustache quivers again.

The Jury lean forward again. 

Mouth-Breather falls out of his seat.

All is silent.

More silence. 

It is now a Silence.

“SHINY BLUE!”

All hell breaks loose. SHINY BLUE! How scandalouser!

Mr. Sellout smugged. He smugged like it was a verb. 

“Clearly, Emma would not have painted the car like that if she did not want it to be egged!”

Emma raises her hand. 

“Ah, I would prefer to be called Ms. Kent—”

SSHHHH, goes the Frog.

“Please be quiet, sweetie, the men are talking.”

“But—”

SSHHHH.

“But—”

SSHHHH. 

“But—”

SSHHHH. 

“But—”

SSHHHH. 

“But—”

SSHHHH.

“Wow, this has a great beat,” says Herbert, bopping his head like an ostrich trying to outrun a 1965 Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Somewhere in New York, Jay-Z wakes up in a cold sweat.

The Frog nods in satisfaction.

“Right on, then. Mr. Doormat, have you anything to say for your client?”

Mr. Doormat stands. The moustache has seen a 22.7% increase in limpness.

“Ah, yes. Miss Emma would feels that the cruller of her car is not invective of her desire to have it egged.”

“Objection!” hollers Mr. Sellout. The Moustache has seen a 22.7% increase in robustness. It has now reached heights of inspiring men to climb Mount Everest with nothing but a mailbox and toenail clippers. 

“Objection sustained!”

Smack, goes the gavel.

“Why is it a crime to egg a car? Eggs are a natural part of life! In fact, now that Emma doesn’t want her car to be egged, shiny blue is not an objectively attractive colour! It’s  
not like any other man would egg such a mundane Kia Sportsreliableorwhatever! She should be flattered!”

(In the future, this moment in time will be seen as a great leap forward in the field of science, because of the element created by the sheer force and vitality of the Moustache’s vibrations (the element is called Heptazenofloridium, of course).)

Emma has made a sport of avoiding eye contact. What an interesting wall.

Herbert’s face is currently breaking the laws of physics by reaching 200% punchability.

The Frog sniffs in artistic appreciation. He sighs, untragically, like a broken refrigerator.

“Mr. Doormat, what is it that your client demands in recompense?”

Mr. Doormat pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. His forehead does an approximation of the Dead Sea.

“Mr. Doormat?”

There are too many handkerchiefs. They just keep coming. Mr. Doormat used to be a magician in his younger days, but he has lost his touch (and his pride; he has been wading in the shards of his dignity for the past hour, and his feet are all cut up). Somehow, he manages to conjure up a statement.

“Ah, here we are!”

He puts on a pair of “spectacles” and begins to read.

“Emma retests six thousand dollars for the damper to her car, to recover pear fees and related expensives.”

“Objection!”

Smack, goes the gavel.

“Objection abstained!”

Mr. Sellout has both palms raised to the heavens, as if pleading with a giant spider deity to descend and pluck his nostril hairs. 

“I have a bank statement!”

Out come the “spectacles.”

“The car has been egged before, therefore lowering its value to five thousand dollars! Moreover, egging is not covered under this insurance policy! “Malicious incidents  
involving banana peels, TP, goats, and Carrie Underwood digging her keys into the side of a pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive.” Clearly, there is no mention of dairy of any sort. The policy also states that any damage that occurred as a lack of proper precaution is entirely the fault of the owner. The vehicle in question was not equipped with a state-of-the-art, anti-egg, military-grade drone protection system (available at your local Walmart, starting at eleventeen million and five dollars). I rest my case.”

Mr. Sellout bows, like he did at his last performance of "Othello on Broadway” when his mother gave him a Febrezed bouquet of green tulip-ish things (the performance was panned by critics, most notably for his use of blackface, but that is neither here nor there).

The Jury is moved. Mouth-Breather lies on the floor, in the throes of a heart attack. A tin of mints slides out of his pocket.

Mr. Doormat manages to stand. He is surrounded by handkerchiefs.

“Well, you see, the amount asked in competence in fact is absolvable fair. Justice, may I paint out something of internet on the bank statement?”

The Frog searches. Ah yes.

“Here.” The statement is peeled off an armpit (right or left is irrelevant; indebted or mortgaged is the real question).

“Yes, thank you. A point of impertinence. The ownership of the cart does not, factually, fall to Emma. The true odour of the car is Emma’s father.”

A thousand apologies. Both Mr. Sellout and Herbert kowtow like sycophants to an anthropomorphic squash. They are humbled. 

Oh! They were unaware. To dirty another man’s property—terrible. Abomination. Yes, the value of six thousand seems wondrous now. It is validated by a male touch. A  
thousand apologies!

Smack, goes the gavel.

“Enough,” cries the Frog, though less a Frog and more a Jowl. “Enough, enough. Mr. Doormat, quitely indeed. The indeedness has indeeded me.”

Mr. Doormat nods as if at Great-Granny Tarantula-Tickler, who was done in by Bronchitis, her pet tarantula, who shot her point blank. You know, as one does.

Meanwhile, Emma wonders if it too late to catch some of her Business Ethics seminar. She was not keen on reporting Herbert’s eggs, but she was pressed to do so by friends. You know, friends. You know, those well-meaning people whose designs don’t always go how they expect. But they mean well, they do. Is not intent all that matters?

Smack, goes the gavel.

“Hem-hem.”

The court reshuffles, like tuna fish in a bucket failing five-dimensional poker.

Mouth-Breather has resumed consciousness.

Snick snack, go the mints.

“Would either side like to make a closing statement?”

Mr. Sellout arises, as if compelled by the same burning passion that burns through the Moustache. Quite literally. An ambulance is now being called for the poor man—he suffers from smoke inhalation and second-and-a-half degree burns on his upper lip. 

What a shame. 

I feel bad for the poor fellow.

Too bad he wasn’t wearing a state-of-the-art, anti-inflammatory, military-grade drone protection system (available at your local Home Depot, strong and lasting until you need to break it over someone’s head).

Herbert volunteers to amen his own closing statement. What a brave young lad. He’s been through so much emotional stress lately. This case must have been a very trying time for him.

“I just think it’d be unfair if something as trivial as this went on my permanent record.”

He pauses for effect. A smile for charm.

The girls at college think he’s awfully handsome.

Don’t you, Emma? 

“Boys will be boys, you know.”

A hearty guffaw from the Jury.

“A man’s got his urges, he just needs to throw eggs at a shiny blue Kia Sportsreliableorwhatever every now and then.”

Emma needs caffeine. Mr. Sellout’s abandoned coffee wafts temptingly over to her, but she folds her hands while Herbert rambles on. Coffee is always better when someone gifts it.

“It’s been a tough time for me. I’ve been worried about how such a tiny little mistake could affect my career negatively. Thank you.”

What a polite young man.

So considerate.

Lots of potential. Shouldn’t have a black mark on his record like this.

Yes, what was that attention-seeker thinking, painting her car like that and then having the audacity to hold him accountable for something he did?

Inconceivable.

“Would the prosecution like to make a closing statement?”

Mr. Doormat shakes his head. He has run out of handkerchiefs.

Emma does not say anything. People like her better that way.

Smack, goes the gavel.

“Well, Herb.”

Herbert smiles like bleach and a Colgate commercial had children. 

“I think I speak for all of us when I say, good luck to you, young man. Not guilty.”

Smack.

“Why thank you,” Herbert says graciously. The Jury come up to congratulate him.

Emma sighs, and calls a cab home. She wonders why people try to do anything at all.


End file.
